


Larks Still Bravely Singing

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: X Company
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Epistolary, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Memories, Post-Season/Series 02 Finale, Team as Family, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom had left a message for them after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Larks Still Bravely Singing

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through S2. Recognizable lines from “Quislings”, “Butcher and Bolt,” and “August 19th”. Title from “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae. Mad props to my circle/f-list for encouragement!

I.

Neil was a man of his word: he'd promised Tom he wouldn't pry. He'd looked at the crumpled, stained envelope from Tom's hand long enough to determine its intended recipient, then stuffed it in his pocket. He'd never looked at the contents. He'd simply passed it up the chain, by courier back to the Camp, to its rightful owner.

Her letter, and the indelible image of him, bloodied and broken on the rocky shale of the beach, his words forever silent while gulls screeched high overhead: these were the only parts of Tom remaining that Neil could carry from Dieppe.

II.

Everyone had been allowed one backpack or suitcase for personal belongings. Something small, light, that could be spirited away at a moment's notice when they needed to break and run. Or easily burned, if need be.

The team had moved two safe houses since arriving back in Paris, and Tom's brown leather suitcase had fallen into Neil's possession in the meantime. He couldn't allow himself to abandon the case (as they'd had to leave Tom behind, on the beach), and he wasn't about to torch it. Yet he couldn't bring himself to open it, either. He probably should have passed it on to Aurora long before now to sort through it. Instead, he ignored it as best he could. 

(Though maybe that had been the harder option in hindsight, to see it waiting quietly beside his own rucksack, for its owner who would never come back to retrieve it.)

But today they were searching for misplaced blueprints to the Gestapo offices in Rouen. They'd had to stuff them away hurriedly, in flight, before the Dieppe raid. Aurora thought they might have ended up with Tom's things. So there was no choice now; he couldn’t delay opening it any longer.

Don't think, don't blink; get it done, and maybe he could walk away without adding more trouble to what he had already. Neil hefted the suitcase from its spot in the corner onto the narrow bed under the window. The bed springs creaked under his weight when he sat down beside it.

“Let's see what there is,” he said to himself with a tense breath; he opened the latches and dumped the contents onto the coverlet.

He found nothing out of the ordinary at first: a couple changes of clothing, a shaving kit. Of course, it was what was concealed underneath that really counted. Neil opened the kit, retrieved the pick hidden in the handle of the razor, then set to work unlocking a row of near-invisible rivets along the inside which fastened the false bottom to the case. Once those were open, he lifted the false bottom out.

Ah, there they were, those blueprints, right at the top. Along with a half-filled sketchbook with a page torn from the back; a small box of photographic paper; a couple of pens and pencils; some official-looking French and German stamps; two inkpads, red and black—

And two free pieces of paper stuck at the very bottom.

Neil pulled them out to examine. The first was a folded mimeograph copy of “Marianne”, their propaganda call to resist the Jewish roundup in Paris back in July. Almost seven weeks ago, it had been. Neil's mouth quirked into a brief, downcast smile. Tom had saved him when he’d ran out of ammo, and gotten shot for it. He'd survived that time, if only by blind luck. The dick should have remained in Canada after that, should have gone to teach in Virginia as he'd intended to. Stayed safe. Stayed alive.

The second was a blank letter-sized envelope, with a sheet of paper tucked inside.

Neil paused at that, the envelope trembling in his hands. He’d sent Krystina’s letter on by courier the day after Tom died. He’d refused to look at it, as promised. But _this_ one — Jesus. Could be anything, could be nothing. What in bloody hell to do with it—?

Gingerly he peeled the envelope open, only far enough to see a date: August seventeenth, in Tom's spiked handwriting. Just hours before everything had gone to shit, he thought with a deep sigh. Though Neil remembered Tom writing something that day, too. He’d been heading somewhere, prepping the civilians for the next day’s factory raid probably; he’d caught an image in passing, of Tom sitting at the makeshift, sun-dappled plank table, tapping his pen on the wood, scribbling furiously.

Something about how Tom's head had bent over his work had made Neil feel — lucky. Happy, even, if happiness could exist in wartime. Neil wasn’t normally given to sentimental tripe. But Tom had _chosen_ to return to hell, for them, and Neil had never loved him more — had never felt more grateful to him for it.

(Otherwise, Neil had never thought anything else of it at the time. He’d simply assumed it was the same letter Tom had worked on in the schoolhouse, those hours before dawn. Of course, he'd always suspected Tom and Krystina had had a fling back at the Camp. Tom wasn't nearly the stealthy bastard he'd wanted everyone to believe—)

There was a knock at the open door, and a voice called out, “Neil, did you find those blueprints yet?”

Aurora leaned against the door jamb, waiting. She took in the meagre items spread across the narrow bed; the empty and disassembled suitcase upended on the floor; the quiet, dry-eyed sorrow on Neil’s face just before he schooled it to measured indifference to look up at her.

“Yeah. Right here.” He tossed the envelope on the coverlet, picked up the prints and held them out.

“Thanks.” She crossed the four steps over to the bed, and took the prints from Neil's proffered hand, tucking them under her arm. She then tilted her head, studying him, her voice soft in concern. “Hey, how are you doing? Are you all right?”

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “Yeah. Sure. I'm fine.”

Aurora cast a sideways glance at the curt response and suppressed a heavy sigh. Of course she should have expected that reply. Everyone had been too devastated to do much of anything that first night. Then Faber had shown up to make his extraordinary offer the very next morning. They'd had plans to draw up, they'd been discovered, they'd had to move, and move again. So they’d had no spare time to really talk about Tom until now: on the edge of a rainy French September, holed up in this small flat for the next couple days waiting for orders. Except she wasn’t sure where she ought to begin, either.

She spied the white envelope on the counterpane. Curious, she bent to peer at it closer. “What's this?” 

Neil just shrugged. “It's nothing.”

She picked up the envelope and spread it open. Her heart sank initially when she recognized the writing inside, but then it leapt after she read the first ten words. “It's from Tom,” she said, excitement lilting in her voice. “Have you looked at it yet?”

“No. Not addressed to me, not my place.” _I won't pry._ Man of his word.

Aurora turned the envelope over again in her hands, considering. They'd all been tip-toeing around Tom's absence in the group, one way or another. She might never get a better chance than this, she decided. Maybe reading this could be the starting point they all needed to heal.

“Meeting downstairs, front room, ten minutes,” she said briskly, holding on to the envelope. “Don't be late.”

“Aurora, give that back—”

But she had spun on her heel and disappeared with the envelope before Neil could grab it from her.

Aurora informed Harry in the next room of the impending gathering, then slipped downstairs to the front room. Alfred was due back any minute now from his meeting with Faber; she would catch him when he arrived. While she waited for the others, she placed the blueprints on the table, turned on the wall lamps to bathe the darkened room with soft, warm light, fetched a decanter of whisky and four glasses, then leaned against the back of the ancient blue chintz-covered settee to wait.

The envelope weighed heavy in her hands. Was it wise, was it fair, she thought, to force them all to confront whatever Tom had written, without any forewarning? The first line looked promising enough, but she had not read beyond it herself. It could hurt everyone even more than they hurt already, as much as it could help them.

Well, she could read everything beforehand, she mused, decide what the team could handle and go from there—

She shook her head at that. No. Out of the question. She shouldn't try to protect them from this, she thought, she had to take the chance. They simply couldn't afford to keep any more secrets from each other, not when secrets had nearly torn them apart once already before Dieppe. Whatever Tom had to say, whatever painful repercussions it might have, they would deal with it together, as a team.

A few minutes later, right on time, Neil and Harry appeared at the double French doors of the sitting room, wearing identical wary expressions.

“Hey, guys.” Aurora smiled at them and moved to sit down in the middle of the settee. She patted the cushions on either side of her. “Have a seat.”

Neil and Harry glanced at each other. “Wouldn't it be easier to sit at the table to go over the plans?” Harry asked.

“No, we're meeting here today.”

Neil peered at her, frowning a moment, but he recognized the tacit order for what it was. He sank onto the cushion on her right, arms crossed, carefully neutral.

Harry shook his head. “I'm good,” he said, ignoring Aurora's offer. He removed and pocketed his glasses, and sat on the floor at Aurora's feet, knees drawn to his chest, hands clasped round them.

Aurora let his small rebellion go. If Neil had become more sullen and withdrawn, Harry seemed to require almost constant reassurance of their presence. He never strayed far from any of them these days. She forgot sometimes, how young he still was. How he'd already witnessed far more than he should have at his age.

They all looked up at the three-two-one knock on the front door of the flat. It opened, and Alfred stepped over the threshold.

“Good, you're back,” Aurora said. “Just in time. Over here.” She pointed at the space beside her.

He closed the door behind him, removed his rain-spotted fedora and set it on the table, then tilted his head. “What's going on?”

“Group cry,” Neil replied, in a tone that made Harry snort, Alfred pause, and Aurora wince.

Aurora reached out to pull Alfred down beside her. “Team meeting,” she said, and shot a pointed glare at Neil. At least he had the grace to look somewhat chastened by the rebuke.

When they were all settled, Aurora looked at each of them in turn: her team, her friends, her brothers, gathered round her. Once four, now three. She took a deep breath and plunged. “Now that we're all here, I thought I should tell you, Neil found a paper from Tom today. In his belongings,” she said.

Neil looked away, fidgeting.

“A paper? Do you mean a letter? Who's it for?” Harry asked.

“All of us, I think. It doesn't say,” Aurora replied. “But I thought — I thought we should all read it. Together as a family — as a team.” Three startled pairs of eyes blinked at her, but she didn’t elaborate further.

“Tom's last words to us,” Alfred said quietly, after a brief pause. “Do you remember? The last thing he said to you?”

Another, longer moment of silence followed. “Before we left the radar station, he said, 'You're knocking it out of the park. Just go do it again,'” Aurora said with a fond smile.

“'There's no time,'” Neil said, staring straight ahead. Tom had run up behind the ridge to cover him and Harry. After that, there had been only the awful, wet gasping as Tom struggled to breathe on the beach, blood seeping from his mouth as Neil begged him to stay.

“'Harry,'” Harry said dully, resting his cheek on his knee. “When I was sending the radio message out to the retreat.”

“What did he say to you, Alfred?” Aurora said.

“He said nothing out loud,” Alfred replied slowly, after a few seconds' thought, “but when I shook his hand before we left for Paris, his handshake was — umber, reddish brown, like the earth. Solid. Determined. I feel it now, too. That certainty. I know he would want us to read this.”

“Do you even know what it says?” Harry said. “I mean, it could be anything. Maybe it's not even meant for us, maybe it's for someone else—”

“He kept it, he meant for us to find it,” Alfred said.

“I'm just saying—”

“Shut it, Harry.”

Neil's voice was quiet enough, but Harry still flinched and shied away. Alfred and Aurora turned to look at him; he scowled back, daring them to show any expression of pity. “Look, this won’t bring Tom back at all. He's dead, he's gone. So let's just get this over with, yeah? Read the bloody letter, say what we have to say, and move on.”

Aurora did not miss the subtle plea in his tone, or the twitch in his jaw, either. “You're right. We shouldn't delay this any longer,” she said softly. She patted his knee, then pulled the folded paper out from the envelope. “So, who wants to start?”

“I will,” Alfred said. He took the paper and carefully unfolded it. Only then did they notice the jagged, torn edge along one long side of the page.

“It’s not a letter, there's no salutation,” Alfred said. “It looks like a journal entry, ripped from a notebook.”

“Dear diary,” Neil said, rolling his eyes. “Fantastic.”

“Neil—” Aurora warned.

Alfred hurriedly began.

_August 17th, 1942._

_I never thought I'd say I'm glad to be back in France again, but here I am. Even though the food sucks (seriously, doesn't anyone know how to cook outdoors anymore?), we break and move camp every other day, and I don't think I'll ever feel clean again. I thought summer in Manhattan was bad but it has nothing on it here. We wait, and train, and wait for what's coming any day now. It's close, I can feel it. Yet I can't think of anyone else better to wait with than my team, right here._

Alfred passed the sheet to Aurora to continue.

_But so much has changed in just the couple weeks I've been gone. Alfred seems stronger, more capable, but I'm worried about the others. Sometimes I don't even recognize them. Aurora's running from something terrible, but she won't say what it is. Even when she's here, it’s like she's somewhere else. Neil seems content enough with Miri, but otherwise it's like he's just going through the motions, like he's lost sight of what he's fighting for. And Harry… Harry, what happened to all your optimism, all your hope? You were our idealist. What happened, when did you become so cynical?_

_They're falling apart, and I don't know what to do. I want to help, but none of them will talk..._

Aurora’s voice trailed off. They really had been that lost, she thought. The words swam in her vision, and she dropped her hands to her lap, unable to finish. “I'm sorry,” she whispered, “I can’t.”

Alfred's eyes were closed and his head bowed; Harry had buried his face in his arms. Neil exhaled, reluctantly pulled the paper from Aurora's grasp, and scanned for where she had left off. As he read aloud, he could have sworn he heard Tom reading right along with him.

_What can I tell them that could possibly make it better? To get them to open up. To let them know they're not alone in whatever they're going through._

_I think — no, I_ know _what I'd want to hear if I were in their place. And I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't put my money where my mouth was._

_So. Aurora. Neil. Harry. Alfred. You're more than just my team to me — you're my family. And as my family, this is what I want you to know:_

Neil paused to swallow a sudden, painful lump in his throat.

_Know that I love you._

_Know that whenever you need me, I am always here for you._

_If for whatever reason I can't be there in person, know that in your darkest, hardest hours, the best part of me that you hold in your heart will always be with you._

_And know that I will always carry the best part of you all in mine._

Neil lowered the paper and cleared his throat. “That's it,” he said, almost hoarse from the effort to keep his voice under control. “All there is.” He sniffed, re-folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope.

The room fell silent again, save for the rhythmic tick of the mantel clock and muffled sniffling: Harry was weeping quietly, still sitting curled up at Aurora’s feet. Alfred gently squeezed Harry's shoulder; Aurora grabbed Alfred's free hand, then Neil's, and pulled them together in her lap.

“The best part of Tom,” Aurora said, nodding, “is always with us.”

After a long minute, Harry looked up at her, red-eyed. “Tom died protecting me,” he said miserably, “and I was a jerk. I didn't deserve it. He still did it no questions asked.”

“It's okay, Harry,” Aurora said, letting go of Alfred’s and Neil’s hands to smooth Harry’s hair. “It's okay.”

“Before the raid, he thanked me for kicking his arse,” Neil said tightly, “for never giving up on him.”

“He never gave up on us,” Aurora said.

Neil shoved himself off the settee and rounded on her, his features twisted in sudden fury. “'Never gave up?' You really believe that? After he goes and dies on that beach? _Fucking hell._ ”

“Neil—” Aurora reached out a placating hand. He stepped back from her, stance tensed in anger.

“NO.” He crumpled the envelope into a ball in his hand and gestured at Alfred. “Do you want to know what Tom’s last words really were to me, Alfraido? NOTHING. Not one FUCKING word. You know why? ‘Cause he _drowned_ in his own blood!” 

Neil whipped the ball at the floor in front of Alfred, where it bounced off the hardwood. He stalked across the room toward the stone fireplace, his fist already raised to strike the mantel. But before he could follow through with the punch, Alfred sprang from the settee, seizing Neil’s wrist at the very last second.

“It's what he did at the end that matters, Neil,” Alfred said.

Neil spun around to face Alfred, incredulous. “‘What he did?’ What part of 'Tom DIED' did you not understand there?”

Alfred tightened his grip and stood his ground. “I – I know it may not seem like it right now, but Tom's last act was — was—” He faltered, trying to explain.

“Was what?” Neil’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

Alfred took a deep breath. “Most people who fall from that cliff height, onto that kind of jagged rock, they die immediately from their injuries. But Tom didn't die right away. He waited. For you.”

Neil stared at Alfred, mouth gaped as he tried to process Alfred’s meaning. “He waited—” he said, and the rage drained from his face. His fist dropped to his side. “What does that even mean?”

Alfred pressed on, words tumbling quickly. “Tom knew he wouldn't survive. But he clung to life, for those few minutes it took you to descend the cliff, long enough so you could be at his side.” He let go of Neil's wrist and laid a firm, slender hand on his shoulder. “Tom believed you would be there for him one last time, when he needed you most. And you were. Aurora’s right. He never gave up on you.”

Neil shook his head. “I couldn't save him,” he said. He stood, swaying slightly from one foot to the other, furiously trying to blink away the growing sting in his eyes. “I couldn’t. He went over before I could—”

Aurora rose and approached Neil from the settee, her eyes welling up too. “What counts is that Tom didn't die alone and scared at the end,” she said softly. She stopped to stand beside him; he stilled and looked away, his mouth drawn tight. She reached out then, to mirror Alfred’s gesture, and added, “Because you were there, the last image he saw, the last sound he heard, the last touch he felt — the last memory he had to take with him — Tom died, knowing he was _loved_.”

The words flowed over the indelible pictures in his mind, the sense memories he’d lived and re-lived every day since: gulls keening, hard pebbles digging into his knees, Tom’s pulse fading under his fingertips. The second he reached him, he knew he wasn’t there to save him, but he didn’t know how to help. And only when it was too late, as Tom’s life slipped through his hands, had he begun to say what really mattered.

_Tell me what to do._

Neil looked back at her, drew one shuddering breath, then another. “What do I do without him, Aurora?” he asked, his voice breaking at last. “What the hell do I do?”

Aurora laid her hand over his heart. “The best part of Tom is in here,” she reminded him gently, “for you too, Neil.”

Harry watched the three of them from his spot on the floor in front of the settee, his own vision blurring in growing resentment. It wasn't fair, he thought, his fists clenched. Tom was already gone by the time he'd climbed down the cliff. Neil at least got the chance to say goodbye to him. He'd had maybe half a minute at most to take everything in before Neil marched him away without even letting him look back.

By the time reality hit, later down the beach, Harry was stumbling over the pebbles through blood and smoke and past the bodies of dozens of abandoned soldiers. And by then, he hadn’t cared about any bullet to the head. He'd just wanted the day to _end_. But Neil hadn't let him do _that_ either. He had dragged him off his baby-faced doppelganger, had yelled at and shaken and implored him to keep going, to make it mean _something_ —

Because he was trying to keep me alive, Harry thought, stunned. He blinked as the realization washed over him. Neil hadn’t wanted to pull him away from Tom, hadn’t wanted to leave Tom’s body behind on the beach. But everyone else was dead, or missing, or their fate was uncertain. The only thing left he could do that day was bring me back safe. Because—

The ball of paper had landed just a short distance away from where he sat on the floor. Harry retrieved it and smoothed the crinkles out as best as he could against the hardwood. He then clambered to his feet and crossed the room to join the others.

Harry traded glances with Aurora, who nodded in encouragement. He held the envelope out to Neil, still standing between her and Alfred. He had since bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut.

“You dropped this,” Harry said. When Neil didn't reply or take it from him, Harry grabbed his hand and gently pressed the envelope into his palm, curling his fingers to hold it.

“I loved him, too,” Harry added. At that, Neil looked up, pinning him with a weary gaze. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, Harry rushed on, “And I’m sorry I never thought you were just trying to get me home—”

Neil shook his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said, just barely above a whisper, and he pulled Harry into a tight embrace, still clutching the envelope. Aurora and Alfred each laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder to close the circle around them.

A short while later, Aurora wiped her eyes and stepped away from the group towards the side table.

“What are you doing?” Alfred asked.

“We never finished the toast we started the night Tom died.” She began to pour four glasses of whisky from the decanter on the table. “I think we should finish it now.”

The others broke apart too; Alfred joined Aurora at the table while Harry and Neil hung back by the mantel. After a moment, Neil passed the envelope back into Harry’s hand. “Here. This should be yours, mate. Keep it,” he said gruffly.

Harry looked down at it, then back up at him. “Why?”

Neil’s eyes were damp, but his gaze was steady. “For when you need reminding.”

Harry silently nodded his thanks, folded the envelope, and tucked it into his pocket beside his glasses.

“Guys? Over here?” Aurora called.

They congregated at the table, where Alfred handed the shots out. When everyone had their glass, Aurora raised hers. “To the team.”

“To us,” Alfred replied.

“To family,” Harry said.

They all turned to Neil, who was frowning at the floor. After a long moment, he looked up, then, and nodded, solemn. “To Tom.”

III.

The sun had long since bleached the rocks clean, but Harry recognized the outcropping on the beach immediately. He paused for a silent moment in the Channel breeze, before retrieving Tom's letter from his pocket.

The paper was tattered now, ink faded and creases torn, but its contents he knew by heart. Kneeling on the rounded pebbles, he dug a hole through stones, memory, and time with bare hands, where he gently laid it to rest.

He only had to close his eyes, and Tom's voice, Neil's hand on his shoulder, Aurora's nod, and Alfred's smile, were never far away.


End file.
